


Simple Pleasures (Mistletoe Story)

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Series: Merlin Writers 2014 Holiday Fic-Tac-Toe [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2014 Holiday Fic-Tac-Toe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst and Humor, Fate & Destiny, Friendship/Love, Mental Health Issues, Mistletoe, Multi, Past Lives, References to Canon, References to Illness, References to Suicide, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For centuries, Freya's been trying, and failing, to bring them all back together so they might fulfill their destinies. It's finally coming together – not in England, but in a charmed, foggy corner of the new world – and now she has a decision to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Pleasures (Mistletoe Story)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Merlin Writers](http://merlin-writers.livejournal.com/) community's 2014 Holiday Fic-Tac-Toe (January catch-up month posting). My card may be found [here](http://malu-3.livejournal.com/11754.html). The prompt for this fic was an image of a hanging bunch of mistletoe tied up with gauzy ribbon.
> 
> To me this is a happy-ending fic, but I know that's subjective, hence the warnings.

Freya opens the blinds, feeds the fish, fills the Keurig reservoir. At her desk, she triple-checks the auguries and the calendars – Mayan, Julian, Gregorian – the international markets, world news, local traffic and weather reports from KPIX and KRON. All as expected. All is in place. It is time.

Still, she sits for a while, communing with the fish, sipping her coffee. She watches the slow trickle of water in her desk fountain endlessly recycle itself as a spectacular sunrise stains the low clouds over the bay. 

There are metaphors to be had by the fistful – worries, too, and regrets – but for the moment she lets them lie. 

_Simple pleasures,_ she thinks, then reaches for the phone.

oOo oOo oOo oOo

Two weeks before Christmas Merlin's in the shed, putting the old cider press to rest for the season. It's not raining yet, but the sky's sulking low and grey over the hills, and Merlin's lived in these parts long enough to know what this means. This doesn't stop him from periodically looking up and out the open doors though, scanning the clouds for bright spots where the sun may be trying to push through.

The muted daylight makes certain colors pop: pinks and reds, oranges, all shades of green. Along the drive the pyracantha hedge, bursting with bright berries, seems almost to glow.

 _Like a wall of flame,_ Merlin thinks. Then, frowning, _Well that's right fucking cheerful._

oOo 

In her adjoining workshop, Gwen reaches blindly for her cup of tea only to discover she's already drunk it. She rubs her forehead, staring down at the design before her. It's her own – a wrought iron gate, each of the uprights morphing into a different flower – but for a moment it seems impossibly foreign. It seems trivial, too, like there is something else she's meant to be working on.

There have been a lot of such moments in recent months. Gwen hopes it's not a brain tumor, or that if it is, it's the kind that is merciless. She couldn't bear to linger and be a burden on anyone. 

_Not like last time,_ she thinks. Then, shaking her head, _Right then, Gwen-o, no more blue cheese for you before bed._

oOo 

Arthur's long given up arguing Morgana's choice of car and route. He's either jet-lagged or hungover, possibly a little of both, and still suffering the effects of having spent the night on her brutally fashionable sofa.

Doing his best to ignore both her and the convertible's GPS, he closes his eyes and lifts his face into the onrush of cool December air. It dampens his hair, leaves a fine sheen of wet that clings to his eyelashes and pools above his lips. It's going to rain before the day is out.

 _Need to find shelter before dark,_ he thinks. _Food for the horses, dry kindling for a fire._

He opens his eyes, gulping air in a wet rasp; the sound is lost to the wind. Acres of pasture, vineyards and orchards blur by, green and gold, and Arthur sees nothing. The damp's in his lungs now. His hands are on his thighs, fingers clenching into fists. 

He doesn't own horses, never has. At thirty-nine, he's successful, single, and terrified that he might be losing his mind.

oOo 

Morgana loves driving, absolutely _adores_ it. She'd race cars if she could, fly planes, even jump out of them – anything for the thrill of hurtling through space, only her own skill and reflexes to save her from ending up like one of the numerous insects on the windscreen.

She gets off the highway as soon as possible; the surface roads are slower going, but the curves make up for it. One glance at the sky tells her that Arthur was probably right about leaving the top up, but she'll be damned if she admits it aloud. And, silk blouse or no, it'll take more than water to make her regret her decision to get the convertible. She has an image to maintain. It simply wouldn't do to roll up in a middling sedan or anon-ostentatious SUV, and she'd rather go on a diet of kale and paste than join the hordes of smug, joyless hybrid operators. 

_He doesn't get it,_ she thinks, glancing over at Arthur. He's staring straight ahead, whether bored or sulking, she can't tell. 

_He never did,_ she thinks, feeling an irrational surge of anger towards her brother. She takes the next turn much harder than necessary.

oOo 

Merlin hears them before he sees them. Or rather, he hears the dogs barking up a storm, can almost picture the rippling grasses and whipping leaves as they race back and forth along the fence out by the road. By the sound of the engine – a discreet, yet confident burr – it's no one he knows.

"Gwen!" he hollers, because he's wiping down Kil's grinding teeth and his hands are covered in mineral oil. "Lost foodies!" Nine-tenths of the people that put ruts in their drive are looking for Daegal and Sefa's cheese cavern.

There is a bit of shouting and banging, but Gwen is smiling when she finally emerges from her workshop. "You never know, Merlin. Maybe it's someone for me. Or you."

Merlin lifts a brow. "What, those thugs from Kanen Cellars after the land? Prince Charming come to carry me off in his Escalade?" 

Gwen huffs a loose curl off her face. "Not one of us _specifically,_ but our, you know – customers, Merlin. Business. We could do with some. Speaking of which, did I tell you some woman called this morning about the mistletoe?"

"Yeah? What about it?"

"It was odd. First bit I couldn't understand, then she asked if it was ready for harvest."

Merlin chuckles. "You did tell her I don’t grow it on purpose, right?"

"Hey." Gwen shrugs. "Some bougie hipster wants to pay you for a parasite, I figure you should let her. It’s not like the apples are covering the…" She trails off, looking beyond Merlin, out through the shed doors. Her mouth hangs open for a moment, then she's covering it, seemingly trying to stop up the litany of "ohmygodohmygodohmy _god._ " 

"What the hell?" Merlin looks round. He watches as a cherry-red convertible bumps the last fifty yards towards them on the rough track, flinging up sprays of mud. There's a woman at the wheel, glossy dark hair done up in a topknot. Despite the gloomy day, she's wearing sunglasses, enormous things that cover half her face. Her lipstick's the same shade as the pyracantha berries.

Merlin shivers. Then he notices the man in the passenger seat, and everything else fades into the background.

oOo 

"I know her," Gwen says breathlessly as the car comes to a stop. "Well, not _know_ know, of course, but recognize. She's – "

"Gorgeous," Merlin cuts in. "Unbelievable." 

"I _know._ Looks like a film star, doesn't she."

"Hm? Oh, was talking about him, actually. The man candy."

Gwen snorts. Then she glances over, sees that Merlin is in earnest. His face is a perfect picture of longing, from furrowed brow down to parted lips. He's gripping the rim of Kil's hopper as if it's the only thing keeping him up, his fingers leaving shiny smears on the wood.

She follows his gaze. The man looks damp and disgruntled, not at all pleased by his surroundings. But there are lovely, strong bones under there, and a wide, friendly mouth. 

_A real stunner when he's happy,_ she thinks. Aloud, she says, "Pretty enough for a white boy, but he's not hers." 

"No?"

"That's Morgana Pendragon, senior curator at Albion Museum of Contemporary Art – and out lesbian, as featured in the last _Equality._ "

She hears Merlin release his breath. "And him?"

"No idea."

They watch the pair conduct a brief, intense conversation. If it's an argument, Gwen'll wager Morgana's won it; she's wearing a serene smile as she opens the door and unfolds herself from the driver's seat, heedless of the mud. 

_Oh no, my lady, you mustn't,_ Gwen thinks. _You'll ruin your shoes._

She's rubbing furiously at her forehead when Merlin suddenly springs forward.

"Well I'm going to find out!"

oOo 

Arthur is, as far as he is concerned, minding his own business – thumbing the damp from his cheeks, checking how many bars he gets on his phone – when suddenly there's a man rushing the car, arms waving this way and that as if he's directing traffic. Long face, goofy expression, a dire ears-and-Supercuts situation. He's saying something about apples and cheese.

"I'm sorry. I don't – " Arthur begins.

"We're not here for _cheese,_ " Morgana interupts, as if the very idea were anathema. "I'm looking for Avalon Studios and – "

"That's me!" A young woman has joined the flailing man. She's beaming from ear to ear, a bit maniacally in Arthur's opinion, but Morgana doesn’t seem to notice. "I mean, no, I'm Gwen, actually, but that's _here,_ so… Hello! Welcome, sorry about all the mud, that's the farm bit of the art farm."

She bites her lip – presumably to stop herself babbling – and sticks her hand out. Morgana takes it without hesitation, removing her sunglasses and slowly looking the woman down and up.

"Well, Gwen, then you must be the art… "

Arthur rolls his eyes, catches the other man doing much the same. Before he can stop himself, he's smiling; then the idiot is smiling back, one hand coming to rest on the hood of the car in a familiar gesture.

Except the car's a rental, and Arthur's almost certain he's never seen this man before.

"I'm Morgana Pendragon," his sister says. "And this heathen's my brother, Arthur, visiting from New York. I'm with – "

"AMCA, yes, I know!" Gwen blurts, still clinging to Morgana's hand. "I was just telling Merlin here…"

 _Merlin._ Hearing the name is like a swift kick to a sore spot, a secret exposed. Past lovers quizzing him in the morning, asking him about what he'd called out in the night; all the lies he's told because the truth is he doesn't fucking know.

The man's still beaming at him, blue eyes wide and steady. Gwen's still prattling on.

"Sorry, do I know you?" Arthur cuts in, just as Morgana says, "Apologies, have we met before?"

oOo 

Morgana doesn't care for apple cider, nor much for herbal tea, but she accepts Gwen's offer of the latter because otherwise there will be nothing keeping her here and she's not ready to leave.

She doesn’t know what her assistant was thinking, putting Gwen top of the must-sees for the Fierce Anatomies show. From what she's seen, the woman's a jobbing blacksmith who seems to deal primarily in repairs and ornamental gates. However, while the art isn't compelling, the artist herself _is_ – and it's not just her fantastic breasts and arms set off by a tight muscle tee, nor the sweet spray of freckles across her cheeks. 

Morgana can't explain why, but there's something soothing about being in Gwen's presence. The constant itch to keep moving – to push on to the next better best thing, to tick all the boxes on the list – fades. She finds she's content to let Gwen tell her the history of the farm and the local art scene as they sit in her workshop on stools made from old apple crates. The whole place has what her city friends would call that upcycled vibe about it, but here it feels more like lean times paired with clever, caring hands. Nothing wasted. Nothing unworthy of love.

 _You're so good to me,_ she thinks when Gwen tops up her tea. Then, _I mean, you would be…_ She wonders how she knows it's true.

"Thank you, Gwen," she says, running a finger along the rim of her mug – marigold fiesta ware, warm and sunny. She sees Gwen track the movement, lips parted, brow furrowed. Then she shakes her head.

"Shit, I am _so_ sorry, didn’t mean to talk your ear off. Were you wanting some work done, then, or – " She breaks off at the outburst of barking and shouts from outside. 

Morgana can hear Gwen's friend – _just_ a friend, she hopes, given the way he was eye-groping her brother – yelling, "No! Down, Percy, Gwaine! Bad dogs! Lance, leave it, _leave it._ "

"Oh dear. I think your brother's met the ridgepack."

Curious, Morgana follows Gwen out through the shed. She's greeted by the sight of Arthur surrounded by three large russet-colored dogs, now splayed at his feet, but with evidence of their prior greetings stamped all over his clothes.

"… _what_ got into them, seriously," Merlin's saying. "Normally with strangers they just bark and ignore. And it's not like you've done anything that might be construed as attacking me, more's the pity, so – "

"Making friends?" Morgana calls out merrily. Arthur fixes her with a look, but he doesn't seem nearly as angry as she'd expect, especially not given the mud on his cashmere sweater. He crosses his arms over his chest.

"In Africa they were used to hunt lions. Or so Merlin tells me." 

"True fact," Merlin says, beaming. One of the dogs gives an excited whine, squirms closer and lays its head across Arthur's shoes. Just like the boys in school. It fucking figures. 

"And you're the next best thing?" she says.

"Apparently." Arthur cracks a smile at the dog's antics. "So… Are we through here?" 

She sees Merlin's face fall, hears Gwen's sigh.

"No." She leans into Gwen until she can feel the warmth of her skin where their shoulders meet. "Not just yet. I was hoping to… "

She's scrambling to think of an excuse to stay that doesn't involve asking Arthur point-blank to either make nice or wait in the car while she seduces this lovely blacksmith when her brain spits out a random image: Rows of squat, bare-limbed trees with tangled balls of greenery suspended mid-branch. 

She'd noticed them when they'd first turned into the drive, remembering something her assistant had said, some joke she'd made about finding poor Arthur someone to kiss.

 _But that's not what it's really for,_ she thinks. _It quickens the blood, takes the poison away._

"The mistle, mistletoe," she whispers. Then repeats it again, louder, fighting memories of anger and pain that don't belong. Not to her. Not here, today.

"Mistletoe! For the party, Arthur – wouldn’t it be sick to have the real thing?"

"Excuse me?" Gwen says, turning towards her. "Wait, are you the one who called… No, it can’t be. I'd know your voice anywhere, my lady."

"And I yours."

Gwen blinks, clutches her forehead. "Shit, sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Only – "

"No, I get it," Morgana says, taking Gwen by the shoulders, pulling her close. "God I've fucking missed you. I've no idea why, or how, but it's true."

oOo 

"Did she say mistletoe?" Merlin asks, still panicked at the thought of Arthur jumping back in the car and driving away and wondering if it's possible that the dogs understand, if that's why Percy – who's steered clear of anything two-legged except Merlin since he was a pup – has claimed Arthur like a favorite tug rope.

"Er, yes. Do you think it'd be alright if I – "

" 'Cause that's weird, right? Two people in one day, unless she's the one who – Would you call your sister a bougie hipster?"

"What?!"

"Never mind. If it's mistletoe she wants, it's mistletoe she gets. No charge, seeing as the boys made such a mess of you, and I'll throw in a peck of apples."

Arthur scowls, trying to shift his feet out from under Percy, which only inspires Gwaine to get in on the game as well. Lance wants to, Merlin can tell, but he wouldn’t dream of disobeying.

"I don't like apples."

"No? I'm sorry to hear that." Merlin scratches his head, wondering what the hell Gwen's just said to Morgana that's inspired a scene worthy of a telenovela. "But I get it, what with the whole poisoned-apple birthday debacle."

"What on _earth_ are you talking about?"

Merlin studies Arthur. A rogue ray of sunshine suddenly pierces the low-hanging clouds, limning his hair and skin in rosy gold, turning the dogs' coats to burnished copper. 

_Always knew how to make an entrance, that one,_ Merlin thinks. _But broke the fucking bank on the exit._

"I have no idea," he says, resisting the urge to copy Morgana – to throw his arms around this sad, beautiful man and insist on hugging it out. Whatever "it" is. "It's been a very odd day."

oOo 

Mistletoe. Gwen's never cared for the stuff. Or at least that's what she tells Morgana, hears it coming out of her own mouth, so it must be partly true. They're crowding one another by the workbench. Gwen lets her hip rest against Morgana's, lets hands and elbows brush as she grabs the loppers, hands over bucket and gloves.

"Really? I'd have pegged you for the romantic type, all those flowery gates." 

"Oh, I am," Gwen says, catching Morgana's eyes. "But all that awkward lurking and maneuvering in doorways? No thanks. Plus it's a freeloader – can stunt tree growth, or even kill. What's so fucking romantic about that?" 

_Hopeless,_ she thinks, remembering her sorrow, her frustration at the sight of those white berries and yellowish leaves hanging over the bed. _Same garlands, same infusions year after year and my womb still dry as dust._

"You've got a bit of an edge, haven't you, darling?"

Gwen's pulled from her dark thoughts by warm breath caressing her ear, Morgana's low chuckle. She turns her face a fraction and nuzzles Morgana's cheek, furiously blinking back the tears that've welled up.

" 'Course I do," she says. "Blacksmith, remember?"

Morgana's chuckle turns into a snort, then an all-out laugh.

oOo 

Arthur's given the job of holding the ladder, but he's having none if it.

"Let me go up. I'm already a mess," he says, gesturing for Merlin to hand him the loppers. For some reason the sight of Merlin wielding them makes him anxious. Plus the mistletoe is Morgana's stupid idea, which means, of course, that _he_ should be the one to get it.

 _There was a time when I couldn't deny her a thing,_ Arthur thinks, despite having an entire childhood's worth of memories of doing exactly that. Hoarding Lincoln Logs and Lego bricks; vicious games of Monopoly.

Merlin gives Arthur the onceover, arches an eyebrow. "You're hardly going to get muddier climbing a tree. And guess who's liable if you fall and break something? No way."

"Please? I…" Arthur looks down at his hands, wondering how to explain. How useless they seem, how pointless his job back in New York. He can't remember the last living thing that's touched him on purpose before Merlin's dogs jumped him. He puts a hand on his heart. 

"I promise I won't fall. And if I do, I promise I won’t sue, on my honor."

"Shit. Well, when you put it like that… " Merlin steps aside and ushers Arthur towards the ladder with a flourish, waiting until he's halfway up before extending him the grip end of the loppers. "Don't you dare hurt her though."

"Who?" 

Merlin is staring quite fixedly, Arthur is amused to note, at his ass. He's not Arthur's usual type, but there is something appealing about him. He'd probably be fun in bed. Generous.

Merlin pats the tree's trunk, shaggy with lichen and bits of moss. "My old Gaius apple. Not many left in these parts. Everyone's plowing them up to put in more fucking vineyards."

"You have something against wine. Merlin?" Morgana's promised him a few hours of tasting as a reward for keeping her company on this goose chase before they head back to the city.

"Not when I'm drinking it. But that doesn't mean I want the entire county covered in grapes."

Arthur clucks his tongue. _A flirt and a lightweight,_ he thinks, remembering those eyes gleaming bright across a dice tray, those cheeks flushed with ale. _Or was that all part of the act?_

He tears his eyes away, focuses back on the ladder, the tree, the tool in his hand. It's got telescoping handles with thick red and black rubber grips and short curved blades. He has no idea what it is, really. It's fascinating, but utterly foreign – utterly wrong.

"Hey, aren't I supposed to use a golden sickle?" The words are out before he processes how little sense they make. He remembers saying almost the exact same thing while standing up to his thighs in snow, remembers wondering later if that's why it never worked on Guinevere. Wrong tool. No magic.

 _All those years you let us hope in vain,_ he thinks bitterly. _All those years you kept your light from me._

"You know, I think you are," Merlin says, as if Arthur isn't cracking up on a ladder 3,000 miles from his therapist. "But then, technically you're supposed to be a druid, too, and I doubt that's happening any time soon, so…"

"What the fuck is going on?" Arthur mutters. A gust of wind rattles the tree branches around him, drives the damp air through his thin sweater.

"You're on a quest, sire. Which I'd suggest you hurry up and complete before we both get soaked. It's about to rain."

oOo 

The dogs keep whining, wanting to go after Arthur and Merlin, so Gwen excuses herself to put them in the house. When she returns, she's got a couple of cardboard boxes – for the mistletoe, she explains – and a sketchbook.

"And what's that?" Morgana says, relieving her of the boxes. 

Gwen hugs the sketchbook to her chest. "It's going to rain soon. Might want to put the roof up on your car first."

"Right. Good thinking." Morgana sets the boxes on the workbench and glances around for her purse. "I'll just – 

"Or…"

"Or?" 

Gwen's biting her lip again, looking at Morgana with such longing it's almost painful to be on the end of it. She thinks she may have felt like that when she was young – perhaps she could, still – but no one she runs with these days risks showing it.

"Or you could put it in the old barn. Stay for a drink, dinner. See how the roads are holding up in the morning, after they've had a chance to drain."

"Dinner and a drink, hm?" Morgana closes in, resting her hands on Gwen's shoulders. "And where would I sleep?"

"Wherever you like." Gwen holds her gaze. "Though I think you know you'd be welcome in my bed."

"And Arthur?"

"Arthur." Gwen blinks, sighs. " _Arthur._ God, he always took up so much…" She shrugs.

"Yes." Morgana chuckles, nudging her nose alongside Gwen's, pressing bright lipstick kisses amongst the freckles, picking up where they'd left off. "Yes, he did. Does. Though less than before, I think. Maybe that's why he's depressed."

"Well," Gwen whispers, closing her eyes and tilting her face to meet Morgana's kisses, "these days Merlin's got a lot of room in his life. Maybe Arthur can expand to fit."

oOo oOo oOo oOo

Freya finds them through the mist and the puddles and the cups of tea, watches through the fish tank, the dwindling Keurig reservoir, and the collecting pool of the desktop fountain.

After all these centuries, it's finally working. She hasn’t gathered everyone, but more than ever before – more than ever seemed possible – and with minimal damage to the waking world. It seems she and Taliesin were right about the plant being a sign. 

_Viscum album_ they call it now. Mistle from the old country with its snowy-white berries and lemon-lime leaves, surviving across time and oceans, flourishing in this little corner of the new world. Something of the Old Religion, of their old lives, powerful enough to bind them back to memory, to bring the past into the present, awakening their minds.

Emrys the Immortal and the Once and Future King, the Queen of Cups and the Queen of Swords. Once they've each touched the plant, all she need do is speak the words, send the final spell through the raindrops – through their sweat, if necessary, or the wine that Gwen is even now opening – and this half-madness will end. They will remember in full.

Still, she hesitates. She watches them in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, flushed after their dash inside, dripping wet from the sudden downpour.

Merlin's over the moon about having more people to cook for. Busy about the counters and the stove, grinding and mixing, seasoning and tasting, every now and then sneaking glances at Arthur and grinning because he can't help himself and never will – never has been able to, even when he has no idea who Arthur is.

Gwen's nervous about handing over the sketchbook. She's keeping herself busy with the wine and the towels, cloth for the people and paper for the mistletoe, blotting the sprigs so they won't mold before Morgana can get them back to her apartment, wondering if it will be too obvious she's hoping for sex if she excuses herself for a hot shower before dinner.

Arthur's on the floor playing with the dogs, so full of emotion and doubt it's easier to sacrifice his dignity and a five-hundred dollar sweater than participate in the conversation. He's more grateful than he will ever admit for the chance to do so.

And last but not least, Morgana, who's muttering to herself as she flips through Gwen's sketchbook. She's guzzling wine that's below her price range, is surrounded by the sort of décor – or lack thereof – she'd swear up and down she'd never be caught dead near, and yet she, too, is content. She's got a gleam in her eye, a smile on her lips; even as Freya watches she digs her phone from her purse and sends a text.

Freya's phone vibrates on the desk.

**Found blacksmith. Brilliant. Back tomorrow, take AM off and lunch on me. Tip - ask for a raise.**

Smiling, Freya sends her usual: **Confirmed.**

It was the dragons that had first caught her eye back in October, that and the passenger pigeons. A whole slew of conceptual designs for body armor for extinct and endangered species. They hadn’t officially been part of the open studios event, but Freya had spotted the sketchbook on a shelf on her way to the bathroom, felt the pull of it. Rips in the veil, things out of time. This Guinevere, starting to remember.

Freya packs her phone in her bag, washes and rinses her coffee mug and puts it in the rack. The alerts on her desktop calendar are chiming like mad – the Fates have even resorted to email – but still, she hesitates.

They're all sitting around the kitchen table now, munching olives and cheese while supper cooks, toasting new friends and old – art and mud, ignoble quests, hot blacksmiths, the ridgepack, un-poisoned apples – and tipsily tying up bunches of mistletoe with gauzy ribbon.

 _Simple pleasures,_ she thinks. After all the waiting, the research and plotting, the centuries of wrangling with the Fates; after all the other disastrous attempts, she never thought to see them like this, fitting together so readily, but in new and kinder ways that have nothing to do with the old magic or destiny.

The desk phone starts ringing. The mobile in Freya's bag starts to chirp and buzz. All the fish have huddled into a mass in the corner of the tank, a ball of clashing colors and fluttering fins, watching to see what she'll do.

She closes her eyes, tries to remember being a human girl. It was mostly a misery, as she recalls, but there had been a boy – Merlin – and back then she'd loved him, not for his power or his place in history, but for dancing lights and a too-fine dress; meat from a prince's plate; remembering her mountain and couple of cows. Simple pleasures amidst the terror.

Freya reaches out, calling to the water until her fingers find the small pool at the base of the desk fountain. Thinking of that boy, of the lake where all of this began, she incants a spell: Oblivion, then, not remembrance – all their pasts washed away. 

She knows that the Fates will exact their price, that Morgana will be sorry to lose her, but she'll dive into the bay tonight with no regrets. 

This time round, theirs will be a small and mundane kingdom, with mistletoe just for kissing.

oOo oOo oOo oOo

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired, in part, by the fact that European mistletoe ( _Viscum album_ ) may indeed be found hanging out in a small portion of Sonoma County. Not sure, but I think it has something to do with Luther Burbank? I feel like in California he's always a safe bet, blame-wise, for that sort of thing.
> 
> European mistletoe has lots of associations/uses/stories about it in various cultures, which I've shamelessly skimmed from websites, jumbled and tossed into this fic. DON'T EAT THE BERRIES THOUGH. 
> 
> Percy, Gwaine and Lance are Rhodesian Ridgebacks, if you were wondering. And that's a story for another day. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
